


Sacrifice

by apparitionism



Series: Sacrifice [1]
Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: But different, F/F, The Greatest Gift, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-04
Updated: 2014-12-04
Packaged: 2018-02-28 04:41:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2719106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apparitionism/pseuds/apparitionism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Remember "The Greatest Gift," that holiday episode with Pete and the brush? Things probably would have happened differently if H.G. had been part of its alternate reality... here's a take on how that might have gone. My memory of that episode's details has faded a bit, and obviously this deviates from it in significant ways, but the general arc remains. We fade in on Agent Myka Bering, who is trying to recover from an encounter with a crazy guy named Pete, a guy she's never met before, who keeps saying they're partners...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Myka Bering does not do things like this. Ever. So when it actually registers that she’s been staring at another woman across a crowded bar for the past half hour, she downs her drink, signs the credit card receipt, and stands to leave.

And that’s when things get more than a little complicated, because that’s when the woman she’s been staring at (why? what is it about this gorgeous creature that’s made Myka gaze like a fool instead of drinking her drink and going home like she always does?) stands up too. And starts walking—no, _stalking_ —through the bar toward Myka. Who is now paralyzed. Should she bolt? Should she pretend she’s a statue in a performance art piece? She did this; it’s her fault. If she had been able to make her eyes behave, this wouldn’t be happening, and she wouldn’t have to be sorting through options in her head like this. She’d be home already, showering the day off, making her list for tomorrow, reading a foreign policy article or two, falling asleep… not watching the most beautiful woman she’s ever seen aim for her like she’s a bullet and Myka’s a cutout at the firing range.

This is not what Myka does. And even if it were, this is not who she’d do it with. Is it? Except… well, she can’t think clearly. This must be because she isn’t breathing; oxygen isn’t reaching her brain. It figures that this would be how this bizarre day ends. It’s not every morning that some freak claiming to be your partner in an alternate reality appears in your office. Yes, that helps: it’s been a weird day, so it’s not that surprising that something else out of the ordinary is happening.

And now the latest out-of-the-ordinary happening is happening right in front of her, invading her personal space just enough to make her body jump to attention. But that’s just because it’s a security risk to have someone get this close to her. Isn’t it? “Hello,” she hears the vision say. It’s a husky voice, with a British accent, which she would be a sucker for even under normal circumstances. These circumstances are not normal.

“Hi,” Myka squeaks back. Well, that was embarrassing. Hardly befitting an armed, highly trained secret service agent. She clears her throat and tries again. “Hi,” she says. That sounded a bit better. All right, try something else: “I was just wondering if we knew each other.” This is good; this could explain the staring. Or… and then she realizes that it sounds like one of the worst pickup lines _ever_.

“I was wondering the same thing,” says the source of Myka’s embarrassment. “Perhaps we’ve met at some social function?”

“I don’t… I don’t go to a lot of social functions,” Myka says. What in the world possessed her to tell the truth? This elegant women in her long coat, with her impossibly red lips (lips? what?), is going to think that Myka’s exactly the socially awkward giraffe that she is, and now she’s going to turn around and walk away. Wait. Isn’t that what Myka’s supposed to want to happen?

“No matter,” the woman says smoothly. She holds out her hand. “My name is Helena.”

Myka isn’t quite sure what to do about that hand. It’s so perfect, it should be under glass in a museum. There’s a ring on her finger, but Myka registers that that’s her right hand. There’s nothing on her left hand. And since when, Myka asks herself in astonishment, has she taken to looking for wedding rings on women’s hands?

She’s going to have to touch that hand, here in a second, or look like a simpleton. So she takes a deep breath and does. She wouldn’t have been able to stop herself anyway; this woman is a magnet and Myka is nothing but a pile of iron filings. Because the second their hands meet… Myka tries to give her usual firm handshake, the kind of handshake that she uses with other Secret Service agents, men in particular, the one that says, “I am even more competent than you are, so don’t even think about it.” Instead, she fears, the handshake’s coming off as “I am trying to pretend I’m not melting.”

A tiny smile, almost a smirk, crosses the woman’s—Helena’s—lips. God, those lips. “But you haven’t told me your name,” she says. She isn’t letting Myka’s hand go; she’s just holding it lightly, as lightly as anything, but it’s making Myka sweat between her shoulderblades.

Myka shocks herself by asking, “Does it matter?”

That gets her a raised eyebrow. “I don’t suppose,” Helena says. “But… it might be useful… later… when we—”

“Myka,” she says hurriedly, to keep from hearing Helena say it, whatever it was she was going to say, out loud.

There’s that smirk again. “Myka,” the lips say, “what a lovely name.”

And Myka believes her, because it does sound lovely when she says it. It sounds divine, in fact, and she wants to hear it again, more, always. That thought terrifies her, and she can feel what the fear is doing to her body, her face; she’s tensing up, probably starting to get that look her sister calls _petrified meerkat_.

The idea of her sister making fun of her brings her up short. She is not going to walk away from this because she’s afraid. She’s going to _act_ on this, because it will probably never happen again. She is going to admit to herself that she wants it to happen, that her body is telling her something _important_ and she needs, for once in her life, to listen. _For once in your life?_ comes a small whisper of guilt. _No, this is the second time. Have you forgotten what happened the first time?_

She pushes that voice away. This is not the same thing at all. This is… she breathes deeply…. if this is anything, this is a one-night stand. That is what this is going to be. She stands up straight, which makes her taller than Helena by a good three or four inches, and she sees the other woman open her mouth slightly. She inhales in a way that even Myka can read as… appreciative. Well, Myka thinks, at least I have this. She hasn’t had many good thoughts, really, about being tall; she’s not particularly good at basketball, except the part where you stand in front of the basket and hold your hands up. And the height’s been a problem with men: they don’t like it. She’s always sort of hoped to find someone taller than she is, just so the picture would look right, but once she puts on heels… there aren’t many men that tall. At least, not where she’s been looking. (She hasn’t really been looking very hard, or in very many places.)

Did they have a drink together? Did they talk? Myka doesn’t know; all she knows is that, suddenly, it’s time. As they’re leaving, as she feels Helena’s hand pressing just right on the small of her back and starts trembling in anticipation, she glances across the street and sees that guy, Pete, from earlier today, standing on the sidewalk. He’s pointing at the two of them, and his mouth’s opening and closing, like he’s trying to speak but can’t. Myka shakes her head. Crazy stalker. Though why anybody would be stalking _her_ , she has no idea.

“Are you all right, Myka?” Helena asks, too close to her ear, and oh god again for the way she makes her name sound…

“I’m fine,” Myka says, resolving not to look back at Pete. “I’m better than fine. How are you?” She likes that she has to lean down a little to reach Helena’s ear. Her height again: right now it’s making her feel strong. Nervousness aside, she feels like she could just lift Helena up and carry her. And like she wants to.

She’s about to lean back down to that tempting shell of an ear and tell her so, when she hears running footsteps and “MYKA! H.G.!” being shouted from behind them. Obviously it’s that Pete guy… she decides not to turn around.

Unfortunately, Helena does turn, and with the strangest expression on her face. Does she know him? She couldn’t possibly, could she? What kind of… and then Myka thinks that maybe it’s all part of the same stalker scam, that the two of them are working together to compromise her. That Pete’s wacko story didn’t work, so now it’s Helena’s job to seduce her… and now Myka feels like a huge awkward idiot again, because here, now, is the real reason why the most beautiful woman in the world decided to pick her up in a bar.

Pete catches up to them, panting like he’s run a mile instead of a block. “Okay, H.G.,” he says, and he’s talking to Helena, “I really didn’t expect to see you, but since you’re here, and you and Myka clearly know each other, I’m gonna just get it out in the open: are you trying to destroy the world? Because if you’re not, I could really use your help. And Mykes, man, I would have thought you’d’ve mentioned. Trying to put one over on me? Even if you don’t know _me_ , this proves you’ve gotta know _something_ about what I was talking about.”

Okay, maybe they aren’t working together. “Something about what you were talking about?” Myka demands. “I know even less now than I did before. Helena and I just met tonight, and I’m sure she thinks you’re even more insane than I do.” She turns to Helena, who still has a look that’s something like surprise, something like calculation. Maybe that’s just what she looks like when she’s confused? “I’m sorry,” Myka says, and she means it more than she’s ever meant anything. “This man came into my office today saying all kinds of weird things. I think he’s suffering some kind of delusion, and he clearly thinks you’re part of it too.”

“Hm,” is Helena’s response. She’s looking bemusedly at Pete. “Trying to destroy the world?” she asks him. “Why would I—or anyone—want to do that?”

Pete points his finger at her. “Because _you_ are a crazy lady. Don’t get me wrong, sometimes you’re a helpful crazy lady, and you’re a crazy smart crazy lady, but let’s face it, H.G., all that time in the bronzer messed you the hell up. Am I right?”

He comes across like a demented puppy, Myka thinks, and nothing he says makes any sense at all. But Helena’s looking at him like he _does_ make sense, like she’s trying to figure something out. She asks, “Who are you, exactly?”

“Who am I exactly? I’m Pete! God, this just gets more and more ridiculous! I’m Pete, that’s Myka, you’re H.G., and I don’t know what’s going on, but MacPherson’s got control of the warehouse, and no matter what your plan really is, even _you_ don’t want that. You don’t trust him, H.G., and you’re right not to. Come on. I could really use your help.”

Myka watches Helena’s face change as Pete speaks: she goes from amused tolerance to a kind of hawkish anticipation, and Myka starts to feel fairly certain that even if Helena and Pete aren’t working together in some elaborate scam, that Helena really does have some connection to what he’s talking about. She’s heard of this MacPherson, this warehouse. “Do you know this guy?” Myka asks her, gesturing at Pete.

Helena looks at her, but her dark eyes show her thoughts are elsewhere. “No,” she says, and Myka believes her, but then she goes on, “but he is talking less nonsense than you may think.” Helena turns to Pete. “How do you know about MacPherson and the warehouse? And don’t lie to me,” she adds, in a tone that Myka recognizes from her own interrogations.

“Thank god,” Pete says. “You believe me. Okay, here’s what happened: I’m a warehouse agent, but I touched some artifact and now it’s like nobody remembers who I am. And everything’s different and wrong: Artie’s not in charge, Myka’s not an agent, MacPherson’s running things, and two people I’ve never seen before are doing his dirty work. And you… well, I don’t know what’s up with you, but I guess you didn’t try to destroy the world, because if you _had_ tried, it probably would have worked, since Myka didn’t stop you, so I’m gonna assume that you’re still working for MacPherson for some reason. I don’t see why you’d do that, though; you never seemed to like the guy all that much. I mean, you did kill him.”

Myka gives a little gasp. Helena killed someone? But both Pete and Helena seem unperturbed by this; Pete, in particular, just looks like he’s thinking about how to chew his way through a particularly thick wad of bubble gum.

“Why did I kill him?” Helena asks, totally calm. Or putting up the best front Myka’s ever seen.

“Because… well, I’m not quite sure. You’d used the imperceptor vest to get stuff out of the Escher vault for him, but I think you didn’t want him in charge? You wanted to get away—from all of us, actually, because you thought we were going to rebronze you. Which we probably should have, given what happened later, but at the time… yeah, I’m really not sure. Anyway, you did, and then all kinds of stuff happened, and you decided you wanted to be a warehouse agent again, so you kind of stalked Myka—which, is that what you’re doing now?—until you got her to recommend that they reinstate you, but the whole time, you were plotting to destroy the world, and you tried, but then you didn’t do it in the end and you ended up in scary Regent prison. Hey, why _are_ you stalking Myka again, anyway?”

“Why is _everyone_ stalking me?” Myka demands. She’s given up the idea that Helena is actually interested in her; now she just wants to go home and forget this day ever happened. Pete and Helena can go somewhere and have delusions together. That would be just fine with Myka.

“I am not _stalking_ you!” Pete whines. “I’m trying to get you to help me put things back the way they’re supposed to be!”

“Supposed to be?” Helena says, with surprising venom. “If I understand you correctly, the way things are ‘supposed to be’ includes putting me in ‘scary Regent prison.’ You’ll forgive me if I don’t find that entirely appropriate, given that I have done nothing to deserve such treatment.”

“Well, maybe not _now_ ,” Pete says. “But you sure did, where I’m from.”

“Then you will understand, I imagine, that my motivation for helping you to return the world to that state is not particularly compelling. Having recently been unbronzed, I have no desire to go to prison.” Now Helena does look concerned. She was pale before; now she’s almost ashen.

“But H.G.,” Pete wheedles, “it’s the way things are supposed to happen.”

“Why do you keep calling her that?” Myka asks.

“Duh, because it’s her name?” says Pete.

“Your name is ‘H.G.’? What about ‘Helena’?” Myka asks the woman in question.

“She’s H.G. Wells,” Pete supplies, before Helena can answer. Helena shoots him a look that Myka has no trouble reading: if they weren’t on a public sidewalk, she would rip him limb from limb.

Myka’s not quite sure _why_ she’d rip him limb from limb; it can’t possibly be _that_ terrible to share a name with a famous author? “So ‘H’ is for Helena?” she asks.

“Yes,” Helena says through clenched teeth, “yes, it is.”

“No, you don’t get it,” Pete says to Myka. “She really is H.G. Wells.”

“Okay, you definitely are delusional,” Myka tells him. “One, she’s not a man.” Myka gives Helena a quick once-over, in response to which Helena gets a little of her smirk back. “Definitely not a man. And two, if he were alive, H.G. Wells would be over a hundred years old. And she’s not that either. So could you _please_ go back to whatever asylum you escaped from? Because I don’t want to have to arrest you.” She wants to forget that Helena is giving this Pete guy any credit at all; she wants to forget everything that’s happened since she and Helena left the bar. She wants to go back to having been picked up by a gorgeous woman. It’s insane—word of the day, apparently—how much she wants that.

Helena is running her fingers through her hair (Myka would like to be the one doing that) and blowing out a seemingly frustrated breath. “Is there any conceivable reason why I should confirm what you’ve said?” she asks Pete. “Can you identify some positive outcome, were I to do so?”

“Well,” Pete says, “you and Myka are best pals. I mean, when things are how they’re supposed to be.”

“Best pals!?” Myka almost screeches. “Best _pals_?! I don’t know if you know what’s going on here, _Pete_ , but I’ll have you know—”

“Myka, please,” Helena interrupts, smiling. “I’m sure the gentleman does not need to be told.” She raises an eyebrow at him.

“Told what?” Pete asks, looking from Helena to Myka and back again. “Seriously, told what?”

Helena keeps the eyebrow raised. Myka gestures between Helena and herself and says, “This!”

“This what?”

“How can anyone be so dense?” Myka demands. “And not that it’s really any of your business, but if you can’t figure it out, I just… I don’t know what to tell you.”

“Figure it out…” Suddenly, a goofy yet lascivious grin spreads across his face. “Are you _serious_? You said you just _met_! Man, you really aren’t Myka at _all_ , are you?” Then the smile fades. “Wait. You… you and H.G.? I mean, I know everything’s weird, and not how it’s supposed to be, but how can you be gay here and not there? H.G.’ll sleep with anybody, so no surprise there, but—”

“I beg your pardon,” Helena interrupts, “but that is simply rude.”

“It’s _incredibly_ rude,” Myka says. “About her, and about me too. Because: anybody? You think I’m just anybody?” Which she clearly is, to Helena, but that’s not the point right now. And besides, she’s not sure whether she’s gay or not, but she’s sure that there’s no version of her who’d be as adamantly not as Pete seems to be saying she is. There can’t be.

“Wow,” Pete says. “Just wow. Nobody’s just anybody, all right? I’m sure the two of you forged a deep and meaningful connection in the… twenty minutes? half hour? that you’ve known each other. But we have bigger fish to fry, ladies. It doesn’t even matter what you think of me, really, because here’s the deal: MacPherson should not be in charge of the warehouse. Bad things are gonna happen.”

“Oh, such as my being unbronzed?” Helena shoots at him sourly.

Myka has a large vocabulary, but these two are using words in ways that don’t make any sense. She sighs. If she isn’t going to just walk away from them—and she’s tempted to do that, but she’s also, against her better judgment, still tempted by Helena’s eyes and hair and smirk—then she’s got to make them explain. “Okay,” she says. They aren’t paying her any attention, so she says, louder, “Hey!”

That gets her two sets of annoyed eyes. “What?” they both say, and Myka feels a flash of something that can’t possibly be recognition.

“First,” she says to Helena, “I want to know who you really are.”

Helena sighs. “This lunatic is, in fact, correct: I am H.G. Wells.”

“Short version,” Pete breaks in, “she went nuts, got herself bronzed—”

“Okay, bronzed?” Myka asks.

What follows is a convoluted story about warehouses and statues and how this woman standing right in front of her is actually the person who wrote _The Time Machine_ —and somehow managed to build a real time machine. Myka wishes she were recording all of this so _she_ could transcribe it into a book called _The Delusion Machine_. There’s no way, even with her memory, that she’s going to remember all these details later, when her real life starts up again. It’ll all fade like the dream it is.

Pete and Helena— _H.G. Wells_ —tell the story—the stories—in shifts, with each correcting the other about “what really happened.” “I get it now,” Pete says to Helena as they near the end of the tale. “MacPherson doesn’t trust his goons, so he sent you after me. And that’s why you went after Myka, because you knew I’d been to see her. Isn’t it.”

Myka isn’t surprised, not really. Helena, at least, has the grace to turn a bit red. She says, “Only part of that is true. I did see that you met with Agent Bering, and I did follow her to that bar.” Now she turns to Myka. “But that is not why I spoke to you, and that is most emphatically not why—”

“Don’t bother,” Myka snaps. She’s not sure whether to be sad or angry. “It’s fine. It doesn’t matter. I should just leave two of you alone to stop this MacPherson guy, or not stop him, or maybe you can just go back to the asylum together. Whatever. I don’t care.”

“Stop it,” Helena says. “You have to believe me.”

“Why?” Myka figures she probably should be furious, but she’s not. She doesn’t know why, but all she feels is disappointment. Not disappointment because tonight isn’t going the way she’d hoped (though there’s certainly some of that), but disappointment that Helena isn’t… that she isn’t what, or who, Myka thought she was. And who’s that, exactly? She doesn’t know that either. Myka feels, just on the edges, like maybe Pete’s onto something. Like maybe there’s something tugging at her, some other storyline from some other place.

“I… don’t quite know,” Helena says, echoing Myka’s thoughts. She smiles. “Perhaps it’s just that I would hate for such a beautiful woman to think so poorly of me.”

Pete rolls his eyes. “Geez, you two should just get a room already.” Now it’s his turn to turn red. “I guess you were about to do that, huh. This really… well, let’s just say that my interpretation of certain events has changed. Like, completely. And the both of you have got some serious ’splaining to do, back in the real world, because _this_? If it’s going on, I want all kinds of details.”

“I will remind you,” Helena says, “that to the two of us, this _is_ the real world.”

“Yeah, and everything’s different. Except for it isn’t, not really. Everybody’s still who they are, so I’ve sorta gotta believe that this is who you guys are. Which, I’ll admit it, blows my mind.” He does look a little unsettled, which Myka thinks is weird on him. Why does she think that? “So,” he goes on, “are we solid here? Are we gonna go see Artie and start getting this channel flipped?”

Helena sighs again. “I have no way of knowing whether the reason your tale sounds plausible to me because I am still disoriented from adjusting to this time period, or if you actually are making some degree of sense. But I confess to a certain… curiosity about the matter. Myka, you said you arrested Pete’s Mr. Nielsen. Can you possibly take us to see him? He may be able to give us additional information.”

“He’ll know what’s going on,” Pete says confidently. “He always knows what’s going on.” He squints at Helena. “He doesn’t like you at all, H.G. In the real world. He doesn’t trust you.”

Helena says, regally, “If I am aiming to destroy the world, as you say, then he is correct not to. But why, in this version of the world, should he have any feelings about me at all?”

“Because MacPherson unbronzed you,” Pete says, “and if Artie’s in jail and MacPherson’s in the warehouse, I’m betting MacPherson betrayed Artie here just like he did there. So if he knows you’re working for MacPherson…”

“But if I help you,” Helena points out, quite reasonably, “then I am not working for MacPherson. So…”

Myka wonders if she could just sneak away while they’re having one of these philosophical “this world, that world” discussions. It’s not like they need her for anything—oh, other than the fact that she’s the only one who can get them in to see Arthur Weisfeldt. “Hi,” she says. “I’m still here, and I don’t think anybody’s really tried to explain to me why _I_ should help. And when I say ‘help,’ I mean _risk my entire career_.”

“Because you’re Myka,” Pete says, as if it really is the only right answer.

And weirdly, it is. She looks at him, looks at Helena, and feels… like she belongs. “All right,” she says simply. “Let’s go.”

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

It’s surprisingly easy to get into the prison; both Pete and Helena put on appropriately “we’re just assistants here” demeanors, and once again Myka senses a sort of flow to the way the three of them work together. She tries to tell herself that she’s just being overly suggestible…. but whenever Helena catches her eye and smirks, or Pete mutters something snarky, she feels like she wants to be on this team. This freaky little cuckoo’s-nest team.

Arthur Weisfeldt is right where she left him, looking exactly like he did three years ago, sounding as loony as he did then. But then Pete starts talking, and Weisfeldt starts hypothesizing, and Myka has to admit that they’re making a strange kind of sense together. She looks over at Helena, who’s clearly fascinated. Weisfeldt—Nielsen—hasn’t realized that she’s part of their little group yet. But then he looks closely at her, and his eyes narrow. “You!” he exclaims. He glances around, then whispers, “H.G. Wells, you are a traitor. Pete, she shouldn’t be here. She’s working with MacPherson! Even in here, I hear things. I know what goes on!”

“No, Artie, it’s okay,” Pete soothes. “I think she gets that there’s something weird happening. She’s no dummy in anybody’s timeline or reality or whatever.”

“This is exactly my point!” Nielsen raves. “She’s certainly no dummy! Has it occurred to you that she might be interested in bringing down MacPherson so she can take his place?” He points at Helena. “I’m on to your tricks! You’re not going to corrupt the warehouse or its agents in this world or any other, not if I can help it!”

“Well,” Pete says, and winks at Myka, “it might be a little late for that.”

“What—” Nielsen glances from Helena to Myka and back again. “How in the world did the agent who arrested me get involved with H.G. Wells?”

“Long story,” Pete says. “It’s a long story in the real world, too, but I’m gonna make them tell it if it’s the last thing I do.”

Helena’s taken Nielsen’s accusations silently so far, but now she says, “I realize, Mr. Nielsen, that you believe I am fundamentally evil, despite the fact that we have never met, but I assure you that I am not particularly interested in continuing to serve as James MacPherson’s attack dog. The tasks have been boring. Unworthy of my talents. If Mr. Lattimer is correct, you will find that I am infinitely more dangerous in this ‘real world’ to which he refers. Here, we might as well work together, to our mutual benefit.” She shrugs. “Your choice. And, again if Mr. Lattimer is correct, none of this will matter in any event. So why not work together to no purpose whatsoever?”

“She makes a weird kind of sense,” Pete points out, and Nielsen/Weisfeldt claps a hand to his head. In exasperation? Recognition?

“Righty-ho then,” Helena says, impossibly chipper, as if Nielsen actually agreed to work with her. She turns to Myka, who’s still unsure of how, or whether, she’s supposed to be involved in any of this. “Your turn.”

“Pardon?” Myka says. “My turn? My turn to what? Sound like a nutjob? No thanks, I’m good.”

“We’ve gotta get in the warehouse,” Pete says. “H.G., can you get us in?”

Helena cocks her head. “One of you, possibly, but all three? I don’t see how. MacPherson knows Mr. Nielsen here, and you, Mr. Lattimer, are obviously known to him as well. Myka is the only one he doesn’t know.”

“Okay, so the rest of us will just have to break in,” Pete says confidently.

“Break in?” Nielsen repeats. “Do you actually not know anything about the warehouse?”

“Actually, not so much,” Pete says. “But I know a lot about somebody named Claudia Donovan.”

After that, Myka finds herself, against all reason, arranging for Weisfeldt/Nielsen to be released into her custody. Then they take a trip to a… facility of some sort, the sort that Myka privately thinks should be housing their entire merry band, herself included at this point. But no: they’re looking for this Claudia Donovan, who (after she tries to kill Nielsen/Weisfeldt) agrees to get him and Pete into this warehouse through some kind of back door. In the meantime, Helena and Myka will go in the front door. Myka feels like that one time when she was little and her parents took her to the ocean, and she swam out too far, and she got caught in a riptide. She almost drowned, being pulled under again and again, until finally the tide spit her out near enough to the shore that she could paddle weakly back to the sand. She has no idea whether she’ll make it to the sand this time. Or if she even wants to.

All she knows is that on Christmas Eve she’s on a plane headed for South Dakota, sitting next to someone who’s supposedly H.G. Wells. Pete, Claudia, and Weisfeldt (Artie, she reminds herself, Artie Nielsen) are in the row behind them. Myka closes her eyes, trying to sleep, hoping and not hoping that she’s going to wake up any minute and find that she’s in her apartment on Christmas morning, with nothing to do but stare at the Yule log for a few minutes, then give it up and go to Starbucks for a pumpkin latte and a New York Times.

She feels a hand on hers. “Myka,” Helena says, far too close to her ear.

“What?” Myka says flatly, not opening her eyes. She’s not going to turn her head. Nope. Not going to do that. Because then she’d have to open her eyes and look at Helena and she’ll start wanting again and then the humiliation will kick in. Nope. Not what she needs right now.

So, naturally, she turns her head and opens her eyes. It’s like she and Helena are in bed together, their faces are so close, leaning against the headrests. And Helena’s holding her hand now, and there’s nothing she can do about it. Well, she could take her hand away—so it’s really that there’s nothing she wants to do about it. This is… not something she understands.

“What?” she asks again, softer and breathy this time.

“You still don’t believe me,” Helena says, just as softly.

“It doesn’t matter if I believe you or not,” Myka says. “I don’t really know what does matter right now.”

“My instructions were only to find Mr. Lattimer and identify whom he attempted to contact. And why.”

“And that’s what you were doing. It’s really okay. Except for the part where I don’t know why we’re trusting you. I don’t know if I should pull a gun on you or what. I probably should have done that in the first place.”

“Not very welcoming,” Helena comments. “And the impression I received was that you were every bit as… interested as I was in leaving that bar. Now, if you need to tell yourself that that is not true, well, I understand that revisionist history is all the rage these days.”

“That’s right, you’re supposed to be a hundred years old, aren’t you? How are you not completely lost at sea?”

“What makes you think I’m not?”

“Well…” Myka feels completely helpless, because there’s really only one answer: “Just look at you. I mean, you’re not exactly fumbling around.”

“And would it make you feel better if I were? Would you be more inclined to believe me across the board? If so, missteps and errors it shall be.” She smiles a little. If she were to change the angle of her head, just the tiniest bit, their lips would meet. Myka is dying, drowning. No way to stop this. No interest in stopping this. H.G. Wells, whatever; warehouses, crazy people, herself acting like a crazy person too. Something _is_ wrong, but not in the way Pete thinks it is; maybe she’s been drugged?

“If it helps at all,” Helena continues, “there are several categories of thing about which I know next to nothing.”

“What do you want?” Myka asks. “Really, what? And what Pete was saying, about this bronzing, as a punishment? Did you… was that part of the destroying the world thing he was talking about?”

“That is a very long story,” Helena says. She closes her eyes, and Myka wants to kiss her eyelashes. “The bronzing was at my request. Mr. Lattimer mentioned my loss of my daughter; that was the reason for my inability to continue living productively in my own time. My grief was… insurmountable. Is the world safe from me now? For the time being, yes. I can’t speak to how I will feel in the future. I can say that I thought, during those many many years of waiting, about what the future would bring, and I was quite wrong. Perhaps my nefarious ways are simply waiting, speaking of that, for the right moment to reassert themselves.” She opens her eyes. “I shouldn’t be telling you this. What a horrible seduction this has turned out to be.”

Myka tilts her head, not quite enough for a kiss. “It’s actually a pretty good seduction. It’s been pretty good the whole time. I don’t know why.”

“Perhaps it’s my charm,” Helena says drily.

“Yeah,” Myka says, “it obviously _is_ your charm, but what I don’t know about is why it’s been working so well on me.”

“Is it still working?”

Myka bites her lip. “Yes,” she says, because it’s the truth. “It’s still working.”

“I do not have particularly warm feelings for Mr. Lattimer,” Helena says.

It takes Myka a second to understand what she means. When she does, she sighs. “Me either. Because of that. But you know what’s weird? I actually sort of like the guy.”

“He has his own measure of charm,” Helena admits. “Although I am growing a bit tired of his habit of referring to me as crazy. Which is not to say he is wrong, just that it seems bad form to continue to mention it.” They both smile. Myka wonders if it’s like this between them, in the alternate world Pete keeps talking about. She says this to Helena, who tilts her head and thinks about it. “If we feel… I mean, if we…” She stops, clearly a bit flustered. This makes Myka happy, that she can disorient Helena, even a little. “Well. I can’t speak for you, of course, but I confess to feeling a certain… affinity? As I have been trying to tell you, this is not about MacPherson’s orders. This is about how, having seen you, I felt… I don’t know. Compelled, almost, to speak to you, to try to… don’t laugh,” she says sternly, because Myka has started to chuckle. “This is not funny.”

“Oh, come on,” Myka protests, “it’s kind of funny. H.G. Wells is telling me that she—she!—felt compelled to speak to me. That’s something out of some Surrealist play, for sure.” Helena looks blank. “Surrealism? No, I guess you wouldn’t know about that. Twentieth-century art’s one of those categories of thing, isn’t it?”

Helena nods. Myka can feel the air move as she does it, a tiny breeze, and then warmth as she settles back into stillness. “You could tell me about so many things,” Helena says softly. “Just like this. Well, not _just_ like this. Preferably not on an airplane.”

“I wish to god,” Myka says, with absolute sincerity, “that we were not on an airplane right now.”

“I wish,” Helena says, “that your hair were not so severely tied back.”

It’s unexpected, yet not. It’s like Myka already knows what Helena’s hands are going to feel like in her hair. She doesn’t know what to do with that, either. Not now. And maybe she won’t ever know, if Pete’s right and the whole goal of this enterprise is to put things back together in a different way. Pete doesn’t seem to think that she and Helena are… together… in his version of the world. Or if they are, he doesn’t know about it. But Myka doesn’t see how they wouldn’t be, not if that other version of her, and that other version of Helena, are anything like themselves… she doesn’t see how they wouldn’t be, because she doesn’t see how she could resist this for very long.

“So,” she says, to distract herself, “how long have you been… here? I mean, how long have you been, what is it, unbronzed?”

“Not yet two years,” Helena says. “Long enough to know how to navigate the world as it is now, but not long enough to feel completely comfortable in it.”

“And why exactly did this MacPherson, the one Pete thinks is such a bad guy, decide to get you out?”

“His explanation was that he needed something of mine, and I was the only one who knew where to find it. So I am, in a sense, beholden to him.” She frowns. “I’ve wondered from time to time whether I am in some more active sense beholden to him. That is, I wonder whether my choices are fully my own.”

“You seem to be able to do what you want with regard to all of us,” Myka points out. She’s feeling a little tickle of worry, but not strong enough to act on, not quite yet.

“If it is in fact what I want,” Helena says, and then she looks pained. “I continue to make remarks that suggest I am in some way faking my response to you. I assure you, if it turns out that I am being directed from elsewhere to act in this way, I am grateful for it. My feeling is that I would do exactly the same thing if left to my own devices.” Now she smiles. “I’m not certain I feel that about everything I do.”

“So you think MacPherson has some kind of—what is it?—artifact? That he’s controlling you with?”

“I think James MacPherson enjoys the sensation of being in control. And as I am notorious for leaving chaos in my wake… well.” Helena grins, and it reaches her eyes. “As I’ve heard people say, and I believe the expression applies here: you do the math.”

“Hm,” Myka says, “I’ve never been very good at math.”

Helena keeps smiling. “I don’t believe you in the slightest. My point, however, stands: I may very well be as much of a ‘bad guy’ as Mr. MacPherson is. Mr. Nielsen, or Mr. Weisfeldt, or whatever he prefers to be called, may very well be right. I am not to be trusted.”

“I think you’re wrong,” Myka says, “but I’m easy to fool.”

“I don’t believe that in the slightest, either.”

“Please. I’m buying all kinds of stories today. Warehouses. H.G. Wells. I’m flying to South Dakota on Christmas Eve with people who were in prisons and asylums a few hours ago. I’m the most gullible person alive.” When she says it out loud, it really does sound like _she’s_ the one who should be institutionalized.

“Most people are unable to stretch their minds in the requisite ways,” Helena tells her. “You are clearly more flexible. In fact, the part of Mr. Lattimer’s story that makes the most sense to me is that you are, in his reality, a warehouse agent and have been for some time. It suits you. You must have the requisite capacity for… well, let’s call it wonder. It’s quite unusual.”

“I don’t see how you can say that. I’m… I’m really not that special. You, on the other hand, I mean if you’re really who you are, and I guess I’m starting to believe it, then I—well, we aren’t really in the same universe, are we?” Myka isn’t dissembling; if she’s sitting next to H.G. Wells, then she should face the fact that she’s the lesser creature in the play.

Helena sighs. “I imagine that this, if unaddressed, will become a _theme_ ,” she says sternly. “Between the two of us, I mean. And I would prefer to put a stop to it right now. Yes, I am who I am, for good or ill. But my failings are many, and they include, I think, doing the bidding of James MacPherson for lo these many months.”

“I think I’m star-struck,” Myka confesses.

“Get over it,” Helena advises. “To deploy another contemporary expression. Apparently you inspire me.”

“I like that idea,” Myka says. “I like it a lot.” They would melt into each other now, Myka is sure, if they were not in a public place. As it is, Helena’s hand is resting on her arm, and Myka places her own hand atop Helena’s. Evidently, no amount of humility, even every bit she can muster, can even begin to interfere with this electric potential between them. There’s no dial to turn it down; it just _is_ , and Myka’s surprised by it and unsurprised and it’s almost more than she can take. But she hasn’t wanted anything so bad in a long time. Maybe never. She leans her head very gently onto Helena’s shoulder, because she just has to get closer, and she feels Helena’s other hand smooth her hair, her severely tied-back hair, once, twice.

Myka thinks it may be the best Christmas present she’s ever gotten.

Reaching South Dakota makes her start questioning Pete’s whole “we live here and work in a warehouse” thing all over again. She’s pretty sure she would never voluntarily come to this place… although she has to admit that the bed-and-breakfast he parks in front of does seem charming… “So you’re saying we all live here?” she asks him.

“Yeah. It’s great! You’re totally gonna love Leena. She reads auras.” Pete sounds serious about this, but it prompts in Myka another round of “what have I gotten myself into.”

“I don’t think I want my aura read. I think I’d rather keep it to myself.”

“As would I,” Helena pipes up, “but that does not seem to be an option. It was different when I was an agent of Warehouse 12—I lived in my own home.”

“So if everybody lives together here like it’s a dorm, why hasn’t this Leena figured out that MacPherson’s a bad guy?” Myka asks Pete. “If you’re right, I mean.”

“Dunno,” Pete says. “Waiting for the right moment to do something about it? Influenced by an artifact? Hard to say around here. Lots of possibilities.”

Myka rolls her eyes. So, she notices, does Claudia, who’s been pretty quiet up to now. Maybe it’s because of Helena; ever since they were introduced, the girl’s been acting nervous.

“Can we just get on with this?” Claudia says now. “I’d really like to get this risky business underway, and maybe, you know, find out if we’re living or dying today.”

“Yeah, no prob,” Pete says. “I just think we might need a little backup, particularly Artie here. And Leena’s got the goods. Not to mention, I think it’d help to get her take on—”

At that moment, a woman, presumably Leena, flings the door open and gapes at the group standing on the front porch. Myka’s tempted to start in on “Jingle Bells,” since she figures they must look like the most pathetic bunch of Christmas carolers ever.

“Leena,” Artie begins, “please don’t close the door; you know me, and you know I wouldn’t do anything to—”

But he can’t say any more, because Leena’s pulled him into a hug. “Artie, what happened?” she asks when she lets go. “I’ve known something was wrong, but I couldn’t figure out what or how to fix it. And you!” she exclaims, pointing at Helena. “What’s changed? When you left yesterday, you matched MacPherson, and now you… don’t.”

Helena says, “You’re right, something is different. I have no idea what or how, and for all I know these people could be completely misguided, but—”

Now Leena’s hugging Helena, much to Helena’s apparent shock. “I knew it,” Leena says. “I just knew it. You never seemed all here, somehow, but now you are. You’re complete. This is right. And now you have to get to the warehouse, because I’m pretty sure that something bad has happened to Mrs. Frederic.”

“Who’s Mrs. Frederic?” Myka and Claudia ask at the same time.

“Long story,” Pete says grimly, “but believe me when I say it’s bad news if MacPherson’s decided it’s okay to mess with her.”

Artie, meanwhile, has covered his face with his hands. “I was counting on her help,” he moans. Leena pats him on the back, right before taking off her necklace and placing it around his neck like an Olympic medal. He looks up at her and smiles weakly.

“Buck up, old man,” Claudia says, sounding disgusted. “I can get us in through this back way you and Pete keep going on about. Don’t sweat it.”

“And Myka and I will use, as one might call it, the front door,” Helena says. “With luck, we’ll be able to distract MacPherson long enough for you to find the artifact Mr. Lattimer needs. He is there, isn’t he, Leena?”

“As far as I know,” Leena confirms, “but he called over here a while ago, Helena, wondering if you were back yet or if I’d heard from you. He was complaining about your not having reported anything. You’re going to need a good excuse if you don’t want him getting immediately suspicious.”

“He did try to contact me on the Farnsworth,” Helena says, “but I ignored it. Too great a chance of his getting a look at my fine companions.”

“He doesn’t trust you,” Leena says. “He never has.”

“No one trusts me, Leena,” Helena responds, without audible rancor. “You included.”

Leena glances from Helena to Myka and back again. “I do now,” she says. Myka wonders what she has to do with this.

Leena’s words make Helena’s face change. She smiles, and Myka realizes it’s the most genuine expression she’s seen on that striking face thus far. “I have certain suspicions,” she says to Leena, “and you are, most annoyingly, confirming them. Must you really?” But she’s still smiling, and now Leena’s smiling too. Helena reaches over to Myka and takes her hand, which makes Myka blush. “In any event,” she says, “circumstances have indeed changed.”

Pete and the rest seem to be getting impatient, so Myka says hurriedly, “So are we going to this warehouse now?”

“Yes we are,” Artie says, his tone grim. “Prepare yourselves.”

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

Myka thinks she’s pretty good at preparing herself for things. It turns out she’s wrong. For one thing, as she and Helena drive up to the front of the warehouse (having dropped off the others at a completely desolate spot that Artie assured them was “the back door”), she realizes that she’s never seen a structure this big in a place like this. Skyscrapers, sure, wedged side by side in cities, but this is something else again.

She gets out of the car and looks up, through just-beginning flurries of snow, at the dimly lit colossus. She’s trying not to look as awestruck as she so obviously is. She’s also trying not to dwell on the fact that Helena held her hand all the way here. But she’s dwelling on it anyway, which helps her not be surprised when she feels Helena’s hand on her arm, feels a gentle tug, and finds herself falling into an achingly sweet kiss.

“Just in case,” Helena says, when they break apart. “It would be a tragedy if, for some reason, that never happened.”

“I agree,” Myka says. She’s gone all dreamy, gazing into Helena’s eyes. “Why shouldn’t we just get back in the car and drive away?”

“I can’t think of a single reason why we shouldn’t,” Helena says. Then she chuckles. “Nevertheless. I can’t explain it, but I find myself wanting to stay in this strange group’s good graces.”

Myka sighs. “I can see that this is going to be a problem for us. And here I thought I’d always be the one in a relationship saying ‘duty calls.’” She’s momentarily stunned at what she’s said, but the really stunning part is how she isn’t really stunned at all. It seems the most natural thing in the world. She remembers what Leena said: “You never seemed all here, somehow, but now you are.” That’s how she’s feeling, too, that something was missing, that she wasn’t a complete self, but now she is. Or she’s getting there. Making progress, at least, which she knows she wasn’t, before.

She feels her throat get heavy, and she knows that if she doesn’t break this mood, she’s going to cry. So she says, “What’s our story? What are you planning to say about why I’m here?”

Helena shrugs. “I was planning to improvise. Perhaps you got caught up in my surveillance of Agent Lattimer and learned some things about the warehouse… and now I need to deal with that.”

Though she says it blithely, that sounds plenty menacing to Myka. She gulps, just the tiniest bit. “Deal with that?” she repeats.

“Don’t concern yourself,” Helena says. “Even if it were actually the case, it’s nothing harmful. Not in a physical sense, at least. We would simply alter your memories of a particular event or series of events.”

“I don’t think I want to know any more about it,” Myka says. She’s had enough today; she’ll process the idea of her memories being wiped at some later time. For now, it’s a matter of making sure Pete gets to… touch, she thinks?… the brush that’s going to sweep everything back to normal for him. She wonders whether any of them will know when it’s happened. If it’s happened. Maybe she and Helena _should_ just drive away.

But she promised she’d help. So she kisses Helena one last hungry time, just to make sure that they’re on the same page with that. Which, judging from Helena’s reaction, they are. So okay. Myka squares up her shoulders and says, “Let’s get this over with.”

“After that, I’m not sure I know where the door is anymore,” Helena says, and she’s joking, and if they are going to be with each other like this, Myka thinks, then no matter what happens in Pete’s real world, whatever version of herself she ends up being, she is going to have to find this woman and this is going to be _it_. All of it, everything, she’s done. (And does she think this only because she hasn’t kissed anyone at all in almost three years? Maybe, but does it matter?)

They enter the huge structure through a strange tunnel that looks too science-fictiony to be real. Myka’s tired of suspending disbelief, but it’s clearly going to get even worse. The “office” that Helena leads her to looks reasonably normal, at least. There’s a refined-looking man sitting in front of a bank of screens, and Helena greets him with a cheerful “Hello, James.”

“Helena!” he exclaims, whirling his chair around. “Where in the world have you been? Did you find the gentleman in question?” Then he notices Myka, and his eyes narrow. Myka doesn’t scare easily, but he makes her nervous. “And who is this?” he asks, with that same hint of menace Myka heard in Helena’s voice earlier. She gets a flash of how he and Helena could be working together in Pete’s “bad guy” sense, and she doesn’t like it. For some reason, in this flash, it’s all about Helena’s eyes, and the expression in them isn’t her Helena at all. (“Her” Helena? Already?)

“A slight complication,” Helena says, and Myka notices how she moves to keep his eyes from a particular screen on which Pete, Artie, and Claudia have just become visible. Helena’s timing is quite something… although she can’t possibly have known how long it would take the others to get in through the back door, could she? Myka mentally throws her hands in the air. What anybody knows or doesn’t know… who knows? In this place, all bets are clearly off.

“Complication?” MacPherson asks lightly. “How could such a lovely creature be a complication? I’m so pleased to make your acquaintance, Ms….?”

“Bering,” Myka supplies. “Myka Bering.” She can’t think of any reason why he shouldn’t know her name. If things go according to plan, it won’t matter, and if they don’t… if they don’t, she’ll figure something out. The thought gives her pause. Since when is she willing to put her faith in her ability to improvise? She likes plans. For every contingency. But ever since Pete Lattimer wangled his way into her office, she’s been improvising her heart out. Yes. Her heart. Because this is certainly not about her head.

Helena looks at her like she can’t decide if that was a good idea or a horrible one, and all Myka can do in response is shrug. “Ms. Bering,” Helena says, “was contacted by our Mr. Lattimer. We were unable to determine why. I thought that perhaps an artifact might jog her memory. Also, Mr. Lattimer is proving far more resourceful than his appearance would indicate. He dispatched the other agents rather expeditiously, I must say.”

“Yes,” MacPherson allows, “they are not going to be particularly helpful in their current condition. I’m happy to see he didn’t land you in the hospital as well, my dear.”

“Well,” Helena says, in the manner of a confession, “it isn’t as if I actually attempted to apprehend him, as they did. Who can say how _that_ might have turned out.”

“Really, Helena,” MacPherson says, “you are too modest. I am well aware of your opinion of the other agents. There’s no need to be diplomatic at this late date.”

“In any event,” Helena waves him off. “I’ll take Ms. Bering down to the floor. I think gazing upon Giordano Bruno’s mnemonic will do nicely for our purposes. And then, if we have what we need, a bit of the waters of Lethe, and off she’ll go.”

Myka doesn’t have to fake the troubled gaze she turns on Helena. “You said this wasn’t going to be a big deal. I’m already pretty freaked out by the whole thing, and you aren’t exactly easing my mind right now.”

“Well, allow me to ease it, then,” Helena says. “You’ve been willing to go along with me to this point, and everything is fine. And haven’t I shown you that everything I’ve told you thus far is the truth?” At Myka’s halting nod, she turns back to MacPherson (effectively drawing him away again from the monitors, and sure enough, Pete and company appear again right as she does it), and tells him, “Ms. Bering is Secret Service. I will say, she has been quite resourceful. Ready to accept many seemingly impossible ideas… you might have a word with Mrs. Frederic about her.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, my dear,” MacPherson says. “Mrs. Frederic has been… called away. In fact, she asked me to give you her regards, as she may be some time. She has left the warehouse in our capable hands. And you know, it might not be a bad idea to have those hands increase in number, particularly as the others are not proving to be as reliable as I had hoped they would.”

“Um,” Myka breaks in, “I pretty much have a job. That I’m going to need to get back to, so if I can help you out with this Lattimer thing, that’s great, but I think we should probably get moving on that? Because I have to get back to D.C. as quickly as possible, and with the snow and all…”

“Don’t concern yourself,” MacPherson says, and it sounds far worse coming from him than from Helena. “We can smooth things over with your superiors, if necessary. In the meantime, yes, Helena, I think the mnemonic engravings should do the trick. I’ll just accompany you—”

“No need,” Helena says smoothly. “We can… find our way.” She says this last lasciviously, suggesting that she’s not unaccustomed to “finding her way” with women, and MacPherson smiles in a way that turns Myka’s stomach. She hopes Helena isn’t serious, which is a bizarre hope, given what she’s been wanting, what she still wants, but this, this isn’t the way she wants it. (All right, to be honest: it’s one of the ways she wants it, but she doesn’t want anyone else to know about it.)

“Well then,” says MacPherson, “I’ll leave you to it. But please remember, Helena, it would behoove us to find Mr. Lattimer sooner rather than later.”

“Yes, yes,” Helena says, waving her hand at him. Clearly, MacPherson’s used to indulging her. Which makes sense, if she’s as useful to him as Pete’s description of her suggests she’s been. He probably has to indulge her just to keep her from auctioning her skills off to someone with a higher bid. Myka supposes that she’d indulge H.G. Wells, too.

“Come along,” Helena says to Myka, who nods to MacPherson. He nods back, but he’s looking at her like he’s trying to determine her price.

Once they’re out of the office, she starts to ask, “How did you know where they’d—” but Helena puts a finger against her lips and gestures slightly at her ears. Yeah, it makes sense that there would be some sort of listening device. It’s not until they’re farther away from the office that Helena pushes her up against a wall and says, somewhat loudly, “Just for a moment.”  She leans up to Myka’s ear. Myka’s blood begins to race, but Helena mouths, so close that Myka starts shivering from the warmth of her breath, “Mr. Nielsen will know how to avoid the cameras from this point on. And to reach Mr. Bruno’s engravings, we will need to pass by the Christmas aisle, the location of our rendezvous, which should mean—”

“That we’re home free?” Myka whispers back, sliding her cheek against Helena’s.

“So to speak,” says Helena, with a little smile that Myka can feel. “And now, while I have you here, I’d like to take this opportunity…”

Myka fuzzily imagines working every day with Helena, as Pete said they did, or do, or will, once upon a time. How can that possibly happen? How in the world does she _concentrate_? Yes, this would probably bank down to a slow burn at some point, but until then, seriously, how?

Once they start making their way through the warehouse (with both of them a little flushed and breathing more heavily than even their brisk pace justifies), Helena indicates where they should dodge and stoop, bob and weave, to avoid being surveilled. “Although it isn’t imperative, I’d prefer that my image be captured as infrequently as possible,” she says. Myka wonders what Helena’s reasons for wanting to avoid MacPherson, or anyone else who might be watching, have been in the past, to lead her to learn all of these positions and routes. What does Helena really do here? She doesn’t trust MacPherson, that much is clear, but is she plotting against him? Does she want this warehouse for herself? This warehouse… Myka’s seeing things that make no sense at all, a gizmo here, a work of art there, things that she recognizes but that apparently have some function above and beyond what they are. And then there are tons of things that just look like _things:_ a rope, some goggles, a big wooden ladle? And it all goes on forever, as far as Myka can see.

“And you said there’s another one of these warehouses? In London?” she asks, just to make something like normal conversation.

“There _was_ ,” Helena says softly. “The warehouse—it moves. It was in London; that was Warehouse 12. Back in my day. My original day, that is. It’s here now, Warehouse 13.”

“And Warehouse 14? Where will that be?”

“I don’t know. It isn’t time.”

Myka doesn’t like it when people are cryptic. It makes her… not nervous, exactly, but frustrated. She doesn’t even like to do cryptic crossword puzzles; they require a kind of thinking that she doesn’t do well. So she says to Helena, “Time for what? Does it just get up and move when it wants to?”

“Not exactly.” Helena sounds amused, which frustrates Myka even more. “Honestly, Myka, do you really think this is the time for a lesson in the history of warehouses?”

“Excuse me, but I’m being asked to believe several impossible things all at once, so if I ask for a little clarification on—”

Helena throws an arm out in front of Myka, stopping both her words and her forward progress. Myka peers into the dimness in front of them and sees Pete, Claudia, and Artie. They’re standing before a bank of shelves. An empty bank of shelves. And Artie is shaking his head, and Pete is muttering “no, no, no,” and Claudia is fiddling with something in her backpack. And Helena says, “Well. That explains that.”

“Explains what?” Myka asks.

“Why MacPherson was so—”

“Yes, Helena,” says MacPherson, who appears in front of them, “why I was so.”

Helena leaps at him, but instantly some kind of lighted barrier springs up between them, and she bounces off it, landing on her back. Her head bounces against the floor, and Myka’s instantly crouching down at her side. “Are you all right?” she asks urgently, and at Helena’s slightly dazed nod, Myka pulls her upright against the shelves.

Thankfully, MacPherson’s distracted now by Artie. “Oh, Arthur,” he says, “you just couldn’t resist, could you? The opportunity to get it all back. It’s a shame, really. I was so happy to hear that you were in prison, so there would be no need for me to do you further harm.”

Artie holds out a placating hand. “James. It _is_ a shame, because there’s no need for this. I don’t see why we can’t work together again. Just… why don’t we go talk to Mrs. Frederic, and we can both make amends. It’s not about us anyway; it’s about the warehouse.”

“Yes,” MacPherson says. “It’s about the warehouse. But more precisely, about its artifacts. Which should be _used_ , Arthur. What is the point of power if all we do is contain it? As for Mrs. Frederic, she failed to understand this most basic of principles.”

“She… failed to understand? I can’t imagine Mrs. Frederic failing to understand anything. What happened?”

“Oh my god,” Pete says. “He bronzed her. Didn’t you.”

“I have no reason to lie to you, do I, Mr. Lattimer? Yes, I bronzed her.” Myka expects him to laugh like a cartoon villain, but instead he just turns and dashes away.

“Bronzing Mrs. Frederic? What’s that gonna do to the warehouse?” Pete asks Artie. “Why isn’t it finding a new caretaker, someone who’ll fix this whole mess?”

“I suspect because she’s still conscious,” Helena offers. “Just because she can’t move doesn’t mean she isn’t _there_.”

“So should we rescue her?” Pete demands. “What’s the next move?”

“I think,” Artie says, “that we had better figure out what James has done with the artifacts he took from here. He’s got the brush, Pete, and even if he doesn’t know that it’s that, specifically, that he has to keep you from touching, my guess is that he’s pretty clear on needing to keep you away from all those artifacts if he wants to stay in control.”

Helena groans, and Myka thinks she’s in pain, but no—it’s that she’s realized something. “He’s shown a willingness to destroy artifacts before. If he feels threatened, he’ll certainly do it now. And I suspect you know what that means, Mr. Nielsen.”

“Let’s go,” Artie says grimly.

Myka helps Helena stand; she wobbles a little, then says to Artie, “Shouldn’t Myka and young Claudia leave? I really don’t see why they should be put needlessly in harm’s way.”

“I’m not leaving you,” Myka tells her.

“I’m not leaving period,” Claudia chimes in. “Are we talking some kind of apocalyptic, everything-gets-blown-up scenario? Because that’s how I want to go out. I got nothing to hang around for except getting sent back to that nuthouse, so if it’s between that and a blaze of glory? I pick the blaze.”

“That is the most ridiculous thing I ever heard!” Artie yells.

Pete’s jumping up and down now. “Guys, we’re wasting time! I could, like, disappear or something! Probably! I don’t know! But we need all the help we can get, and the whole point of this is to get us all working together again, so come _on_!”

And so they all start running, with Helena and Artie leading the way, to someplace the two of them refuse to name.

“This is the craziest day of my life,” Claudia gasps to Myka. “And I’ve been certified insane. You?”

“I’m pretty sure none of this is actually happening,” Myka tells her. She notes that the girl is breathing heavily. “Are you okay?”

“Hey gazelle, incidentally, your legs are just a tiny bit longer than mine.”

“Point taken.”

Every revelation in the warehouse seems to happen as you go around a corner, Myka thinks, as they do just that, entering an even more cavernous space where there are… statues? Oh. This is that bronzing thing they keep talking about. This is what they did to Helena. The idea shakes her up, no question, and she has to touch Helena to make sure she’s okay, which earns her a squeeze on the hand and, despite the dire circumstances, an undeniably pleasant flutter in her stomach.

Then she sees MacPherson up on a catwalk over some… fiery pit? Wrestling with a bag that makes him look like some medieval peddler, or a satanic Santa Claus. Or maybe just a crazy person, which is clearly what he is, and Claudia’s said she’s certified, so what does that make Helena and Artie and Pete?

MacPherson hasn’t seen them yet. “I’ll try to get him talking,” Artie says, “and Pete, Myka, and Helena, the three of you get up there and for god’s sake get that bag away from him before he drops any of those artifacts into the fire. Claudia, you see if you can make your way to the bronzer and get Mrs. Frederic out of there.”

Claudia nods and commences sneaking over to the mechanism that looks not a little bit like a prototype transporter.

“Won’t he just drop the whole bag if he sees us coming?” Myka asks.

“No, he knows that the blast would be too strong, all that power at once,” Artie mutters. “It’s one at a time. We’ll just have to hope we get lucky and the brush is at the bottom of the bag.”

“There are three ways up,” Helena tells them. “You two can take the ladders, see, one on each side of him. And I’ll take the catwalk across from this side. I’ve been on it before.”

“I’m sure you have,” Artie says. “Destroyed some artifacts yourself, haven’t you?”

“No,” Helena shoots back at him, “I spend time here for nostalgic purposes. Almost a hundred years in a place will do that to a person.”

“Oh, if it’s nostalgia you’re after, I’d think it would arise because of its similarity to the fires of _hell_.”

“You would know,” Helena snarks. “Incidentally, Lucifer sends his regards.”

“A good friend of yours, is he? Perhaps a relative?”

Myka’s appalled. Helena’s risking everything to help them; why can’t Artie see that?

Pete rolls his eyes and whispers, “Glad to know it wasn’t _my_ fault they were at each other’s throats all the time.”

“I don’t understand,” she whispers back. “Why are they fighting?”

“He’s mad at her for working with MacPherson. I guess. I was never totally clear on it. You kept trying to talk him into trusting her, but he never really did. And he was kind of right about it, in the end.”

Myka doesn’t want to hear any more about that. It’s unnerving how comfortable she feels telling Pete to shut up and get moving, but she does and they do. Her eyes meet Helena’s when she looks back briefly to see if she and Artie are still bickering. They are, but Helena gives Myka a small smile of reassurance. Faced with that smile, Myka can’t believe that Artie’s right in any version of reality. The thought emboldens her. She’s still nervous, but now she thinks she can do this. And whatever happens, Helena will still be there at the end of it.

She sees that MacPherson has started throwing things into the pit; there’s a huge _whoosh_ of fresh fire that accompanies each toss. Myka’s extremely fit, but the heat alone is almost unbearable, and coupled with the need to climb carefully, she’s feeling weak. She pushes through it, hard, hurrying, and when she makes it to the top, she can’t hold back a small gasp of relief.

MacPherson hears her. He looks up, raising the begloved hand that’s grasping the next item to go.

It’s the brush. It has to be. Myka can see Pete’s head just rising above the walkway from the other direction, and she can see that he sees the brush too; he’s frozen, though, clinging to the ladder like he can’t believe they’ve made it all this way, only to fail.

So Myka does the only thing she can: she lunges for MacPherson and knocks the brush from his hand. She hears it clank, and she would lean down for it, but MacPherson punches her in the gut. She buckles to her knees, helpless, seeing stars from the pain.

It’s all happening in slow motion: Myka feels MacPherson’s hands around her throat. She’s thrusting her hands downward, grabbing for the brush by his foot, but her strength is fading. She’s going to die; there’s no way out of this. Both Pete and Helena are too far away to reach her in time. Her vision’s dimming.

“Yes, I see that the brush is the issue,” MacPherson hisses at her. “But it’s mine now, to dispose of as I please. All the artifacts in this warehouse are mine.” She watches helplessly as he pulls his leg back and kicks the brush.

He must have intended it to fall straight into the fire, but instead it skitters in Helena’s direction; she lunges for it, but just as her fingers are about to close around the handle, it teeters on the edge of the catwalk. More slowly than Myka would have imagined possible, it tilts back and forth, and then, as if having made a decision, it tips over toward the pit.

“No!” Pete screams.

Through a haze, Myka sees Helena look in her direction, and from her expression, it’s clear that Helena knows that it’s over, knows she can’t stop it. Myka wants to be able to tell her it’s all right, that it’s not her fault—and then. And then. Myka can’t believe what her eyes are telling her; as it happens, she thinks that this is maybe just what you see right before you die: Helena launches herself off the catwalk toward the brush as it falls; somehow she gets her hand around it, and she twists in the air, her hair flying and her legs kicking, and she flings it toward Pete, who’s yelling, “H.G.!” over and over again, and Myka hears the name ringing in her ears as she tries and fails to gasp one more time, and the world fades away, and she would laugh, if she could, at the fact that the last thing she sees in her life, after Helena leaping to her death, is Pete juggling a brush.

****

Pete comes back to himself in the Christmas aisle. He’s not standing on a walkway over a fiery pit. He’s not seeing MacPherson shake the life out of Myka like she’s a rag doll. He’s especially not seeing H.G. jump off a catwalk into that fiery pit so she can set the entire world right again. And Pete’s under no illusion that she did it for him, that she thought he deserved to be put back where he belongs. No, he knows perfectly well why she did it: she saw what MacPherson was doing to Myka, and she did the only thing she could to stop it. She sacrificed herself, gave her life in that reality so that Myka could live in this one instead.

He’s been unable to think of H.G. without seeing red for ages now. The Joshua’s trumpet thing helped a little, but he still hasn’t really bothered to try to get past the anger and the… well, the hate, if he’s being honest, the raging hate for how she made Kelly leave him and made Myka leave them all. How she _broke_ Myka. He’d known they were close; he’d known that Myka felt betrayed, like she’d been made a fool of. Nobody wants to feel like that, and Pete got that Myka really believed that everybody thought less of her because she’d let H.G. fool her. Even though they didn’t think less of her at all. Except maybe Artie.

But now. Now he’s got to rethink a lot of things. He guesses, now, that the reason H.G. gave up at Yellowstone was that she thought she was saving Myka. Artie told him what happened, how Myka put her gun in H.G.’s hand and told H.G. to shoot her. To _kill_ her. And Pete wondered, then, how Myka knew that H.G. wouldn’t pull the trigger.

But now he knows how Myka knew. Now he knows that H.G. could never, never _ever_ , never ever _ever_ , have pulled that trigger. He knows because now he’s really _seen_ the two of them together for the first time. He’s seen them _together_. And he thinks about how, in the normal world, they’ve always _looked_ at each other, even when H.G. was just a hologram and Myka… Myka was trying to _handle_ everything. Trying to keep Pete from yelling at H.G., trying to not pay attention to Claudia’s hero worship, trying to keep H.G. at arm’s length, trying to keep herself safe, somehow, from H.G. and everything she _does_ to Myka.

And now he knows something else. He knows that Myka does things to H.G., too. He thinks about hologram H.G., how she looked every bit as sad as Myka did. He thinks about the H.G. he just watched _kill herself_ for Myka’s sake. He thinks about how, for the longest time, he wasn’t sure if he loved Kelly, and how he thought that was just how love worked—that there’s no way to be sure, so you have to make a decision. It was like that when he got married, too.

Now he knows: it’s not always like that. It’s not like that for Myka and H.G. The way they love each other—and he knows, now, that they love each other, and that putting any other name to it would be a lie—it’s faster and it’s bigger and it’s a thing they didn’t make up their minds about. There’s no decision; it just is. He saw them walk out of that bar together, leaning towards each other like there wasn’t any other way to be. When they’d just met. He wishes he could apologize to those versions of them now, wishes he could set them back on that path toward Myka’s apartment or H.G.’s hotel room. Not in a dirty way, not because he’s thinking about them like that (although, to be honest, now that he is, it’s tough to stop), but because they should get to be happy together. They should have that, for however long they can make it last. He kept them from that. That’s his fault.

And Pete knows this too: Myka would die for H.G., just like H.G. would, like H.G. _does_ , die for Myka. And one of the reasons Myka’s been so sad—it comes over him like an epiphany—is that she can’t figure out how to do that, how to die to save H.G. If Pete were to put it to her, if he were to say, “Here’s how if you die, H.G. is saved,” she’d say something like “Shut up, Pete,” at first; she’d think it was a joke, but then, if it was for real, she’d… she’d do it. With no negotiation, no need to think it over. She’d jump right into that fiery pit. That’s what she was doing the whole time, he realizes. When she argued with Artie, when she wrote her reports, when she looked at that Regent guy, the one she thought was going to tell her H.G. had been rebronzed, like he’d punched her in the gut. She was jumping into the pit, or trying to figure out how she could.

The one thing that Pete doesn’t know is how much to tell Myka about what happened. But he’s pretty sure she deserves to know what H.G. did for her. He doesn’t know if it will make her feel better or worse, but she should have that proof. H.G. deserves to have it known, too, because she’s the one who made the sacrifice. He wants to hang a medal around her neck. He wants to get on the Internet and get ordained as a minister so he can be the one who marries them. (Which is another thing where Myka would say “Shut up, Pete” at first, then smile that Twizzler smile after she’d gotten used to the idea. He doesn’t have a clue what H.G. would think about it, but if Myka was in favor, there’s no way she’d say no.)

So, all right, now he knows he’s going to have to tell Myka. That’s the first thing. Maybe not right now, at Christmas, but soon. The next thing? They’re going to have to do something about H.G. being in prison. Because in spite of everything she did, no matter how much Pete still hates all of that, Myka deserves to be happy, and she isn’t happy without H.G.

It works out that Pete picks Myka up from the airport on New Year’s Day. They’re sitting in the car together, with an hour’s drive ahead of them, and he figures that it must be time. “So,” he starts.

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I also posted, over on Tumblr, a kind of rambly version of the conversation Pete and Myka have in the car. If there's interest in seeing it over here too, let me know.


End file.
